Snippitts of Illusions

I used to be on fire. Fired with the passions of creativity. Feeding the flames with inspiration around me. I burned hotter and hotter, until one day the flame was out. I don't remember the day, or the day after. It was many days, or possibly weeks that I finally noticed. By then the disease of apathy held me in sway and I didn't care. Well that's not true, I did, but I couldn't make it come up to the surface. Then I found a new outlet, and I let it take me. But what about the old?

I wrote a three movement, 14 minute long wind orchestra piece, that is 16 parts plus full percussion, in two months. The month before I wrote a twelve minute Clarinet Sonata in three movements. In addition to I worked, and wrote many little pieces for classes and such during those three months. That was four years ago. The most recent thing I've done was a 45 minute play, I did it on a short amount of time, but much was repeated. That was a year ago.

What happened? Why can't I write like that any more?

Every artist goes through dry spells. I hope that's all this is. Because there's alot more I could do: I'd like to move all of you with atonality to the point of tears. I'd like cause you to stand up and shout from a brass fanfare done in a slightly different way. I'd like you to wonder why the piano piece doesn't quite fit in jazz, rock, or classical, but is still damn cool.

The fire has gone out, but there are still coals smoldering.

posted by F.G. Shaw @ 3:30 AM